


Dead Ringer

by Fire_Bear



Series: Hang Cool Teddy Bear [4]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Art, I don't know anything about art, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-19
Updated: 2015-03-19
Packaged: 2018-03-18 13:12:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3570911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fire_Bear/pseuds/Fire_Bear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur is having lunch with a co-worker when a couple pass by and tell him he looks exactly like the man an entire art exhibition is based on. Dragged to the gallery, he finds not only some amazing art but also someone he has not seen in years...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dead Ringer

**Author's Note:**

> That summary is awful and I'm sorry.
> 
> Based on Dead Ringer For Love.
> 
> I know nothing about art, really, and I'm sorry for everything being wrong because I took some creative liberties.

“My _good friend_ , Matthieu, is over there right now,” said Francis with a put-upon sigh. “He would be much better company.”

Arthur blinked and raised his gaze from his menu. They were seated outside a cosy café, the sun shining down on the metal tables and chairs, both of them wearing suits having just come from work. His lunchtime _companion_ – never friend, or so they both claimed –  was staring across the street, chin in his hand in a contemplative manner, and Arthur followed his gaze. A huge, sandstone building stood opposite them, a large sign proclaiming it to be the art gallery. There were two large banners announcing what the current exhibit was but Arthur didn't read them, turning his attention back to his menu.

“Then why didn't you ask 'Matthieu' to lunch? Or even Kiku?” he asked as he scanned the sandwiches again. Did he want any? Or did he fancy the soup...?

“I could not. It is his cousin who has made the exhibit and he has gone to support him,” explained Francis. He sighed again.

Shooting his companion a glare, Arthur said, “Why didn't you get a quick bite to eat and then go into the gallery yourself? Why did you have to drag me out here?”

“ _Because_ , mon ami, your secretary is worried that you have been working too much.” Francis finally turned to look at Arthur, his blue eyes stern. “She says that you have not had lunch the past few days.”

“Well, of course I haven't! Unlike  _some people_ ” - he narrowed his eyes further - “I have deadlines to meet and-”

“-you will not meet them if you pass out from hunger, mon cher.” Francis looked worried. “You are working yourself too hard. Did you do this at school and college, aussi?”

“My past has nothing to do with my present.”

“Au contraire,” said Francis, waving his hand in a flamboyant and dismissive gesture. “Your past is what makes you the person you are today – a grumpy, volatile, annoying Rosbif.”

“Honestly, _Frog_ , why did I even bother coming?” grumbled Arthur.

“You are hungry.”

At that, Arthur sighed. “Fine. Let's catch the waitress. Do they even come out here? Or do we nee-”

“ _Oh, my god!_ ” squealed a girl's voice from just next to them. Jumping, Arthur looked around to find a pretty redhead staring at him, tugging on the elbow of a dark-haired man. His eyebrows had shot up when Arthur turned and his jaw dropped. For a moment, all four of them were still, wondering who would act next. Then Arthur blinked and the young woman seemed to take that as her cue. “Doesn't he look just like  _him_ ?!”

“Woah...” said the man, fiddling with the sunglasses on the top of his head. “He sure is a dead ringer.”

Arthur wondered if they were really staring at him and tried to surreptitiously look over his shoulder. When he saw no-one immediately behind him, he turned back. “Um...?”

“Oh, my  _gosh_ ! Do you think he  _knows_ ?!”

“Excusez-moi, mademoiselle,” said Francis, seeming to finally shake himself from the shock of the high-pitched squealing. Unfortunately, his accent only seemed to make the girl squeal louder.

“He's  _French_ ! Ain't that so cool, Darren?!”

“Uh, yeah,” said the man, frowning now.

Before either of them could say anything else, Francis jumped in. “I was wondering what you meant by my... acquaintance looking like someone?”

“Oh,  _yeah_ ! He totally looks like the person the exhibit is based on.”

“What?!” said Arthur, growing more confused by the second.

“'Love', is what it's called,” said Darren as his companion practically vibrated in excitement. “It's basically the artist's various renderings of this guy he's in love with. I'd say it's unrequited, though.” At that, both he and the girl frowned.

“Are you in love with  _this_ guy?” demanded the girl. “Because you could do way better – the artist obviously loves you so much more than  _him_ .” She gave Francis a dirty look.

Arthur had to bite his lip to keep from laughing. Francis, meanwhile, was affronted. “Non! We are not together! I would never take him as a lover! This man is insufferable, has a horrible fashion sense and does not know love when it is pushed in front of his face!”

“Hmm...” The girl obviously didn't quite believe it. “Well, you should totally go see for yourself.” With that, she dragged Darren off, who managed to give them a wave.

There were a few moments of silence. “What the hell was that?” Arthur demanded, still rather bemused.

Francis nodded across the road. When Arthur looked over this time, he read the banners and saw that the exhibit was, in fact, called 'Love'. “There's only one way to find out,” said the Frenchman.

* * *

 

They both gaped at the large room they had entered. There were paintings and sculptures and murals. All of them seemed to have green and yellow in some capacity. However, worst of all (at least, in Arthur's opinion) was the fact that they seemed to have large black splodges at the top of each work.

“It has your eyebrows,” Francis commented, once he had gotten over his shock. He was looking at an abstract painting which were just a lot of colours in a swirling pattern. Green, yellow and red were prominent. At the top of it, however, painted on top, were two black splodges at an angle.

“I can see that,” snapped Arthur, glowering at him. Then he realised his eyebrows were mimicking the ones in the painting and tried to change his expression. It didn't work, though, and he was still scowling as an amused Frenchman sniggered. Growling at him, Arthur stomped off.

Stopping in front of a tall statue, Arthur looked up at it. He winced. There was nothing abstract or vague about _this_ one. That was definitely his face there, relaxed and happy. A rare smile was on its lips, the eyebrows not pointed downwards like the other pieces. The head sat on a slim neck atop a body which was much more muscular than Arthur actually was. Thankfully, whoever had made it had decided that it shouldn't be naked and it was wearing a toga instead. For some reason, it was holding a shield held in front of it. The sword in its other hand was twisted behind it, pointing at the hallway to the other room. Arthur wondered what it could mean.

He wondered what _all_ of it meant.

Surely if he knew someone who was this infatuated with him, he would know? Surely they would have told them? He should be able to tell who the artist was with one glance! The whole place made him feel uncomfortable: it felt rather like being inside his very soul.

And it definitely didn't help that there were people staring at him, whispering to their companions.

“Arthur!” cried Francis, suddenly appearing at the doorway. “You need to see this!”

Shaking his head, Arthur moved closer so that he needn't shout. “I don't think I want to. I'd rather just leave and get something to eat.”

Francis frowned at him for a moment. Then comprehension dawned and he shook his head. “I do not know why you are so frightened – this man obviously loves you dearly.”

“I'm not frightened!” Arthur protested. “This is just unsettling. What would you do if- Actually, no, I don't want to know.” He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. “Fine. Let's see what you've found and then we can go _eat_. I'm sure my stomach is devouring itself.”

“And whose fault is that, chéri? This way.” Francis moved along the hallway and stepped into a second room. It was much busier than the first room and Arthur was confused as to why: there was less in here and only seemed to display a series of paintings. His friend dragged him to the first one and he found himself staring at an adorable forest scene, complete with bunnies and deer.

“This is why you dragged me through here?” Arthur demanded. What did this have to do with the first room? What did it have to do with _him_?

“Look,” said Francis and pointed to a little card pinned underneath it. Arthur leant closer and read the title. _When He's Peaceful_. There was no artist's name which infuriated him.

“And? This-”

“Now this one,” Francis interrupted, dragging him to the next one and positioning him so that he could see it. This one depicted a ship being tossed about on a storm. When Arthur noticed that there were people on board, he squinted to make out the details. Yes, he was right – there _was_ a blonde man with a fancy pirate hat. Beneath it, the card said it was called _When He's Raging_. Arthur's eyes narrowed in suspicion.

He turned to Francis who gestured to the rest of the room. Quickly, Arthur stepped to the next one and read the title card. _When He's Nursing_. Alarmed, Arthur looked up and saw a smiling man sitting up in bed, his eyes closed. Nothing seemed to be wrong with him but he was sitting in his pyjamas and there was a bowl of soup on a tray. There were also flowers, balloons, a teddy bear, Get Well Soon cards and a bowl of fruit. Arthur tilted his head: he didn't understand this one.

“You _do_ go a bit overboard,” said Francis's voice in his ear. He jerked away a little so he could turn to look at his companion. “When you are nursing someone back to health, you worry too much. The last time I was ill, you were sick the next day because you rushed around after me.”

“W-Well, who else was going to look after you?” demanded Arthur, a soft blush on his cheeks.

“Mm. Anyway, have you figured out what this room is?”

“No,” said Arthur, glancing around at the crowd which obscured the other paintings. “I'll need to see the rest.”

“Let me tell you, then. This room represents all the different sides of _you_ , chéri.” Francis grinned at him. “So it must be someone you know very well.”

“But I don't know any artists!” exclaimed Arthur, drawing attention. Tutting, he grabbed Francis and dragged him to a quieter corner. “The only people I know that had anything to do with art were in high school. And I don't talk to any of them!”

“Perhaps you had a secret admirer. I shall ask Matthieu.” He turned to leave.

“Wait, what? Now?! No!” Arthur grabbed Francis's arm to stop him leaving. “Don't leave me here alone,” he hissed, glancing at a nearby couple who were staring at him.

“How else-?”

“Francis? Is that you?” They both turned in the direction of the voice, Francis giving an exclamation of delight: Arthur could only suppose this was the famed 'Matthieu'. He had blonde hair which was a little shorter than Francis's and had an errant curl sticking out of the fringe. His eyes were hidden by glasses but they appeared to be an odd shade of blue. He was smiling down at Francis in surprise and delight.

“Mon ami! Comment vas-tu?”

“Ça va,” replied Matthieu. He glanced at Arthur who was hovering beside them and his eyes widened. “Oh, my God,” he whispered.

“Good afternoon,” said Arthur, crisply, glaring at the man. He didn't appreciate all this gawking. “I'm Arthur Kirkland. It's a pleas-”

“Oh, my God!” cried Matthieu. “You're-!” He spun around, appearing to look for something before turning right back again. “God, I'm so sorry. I'm Matthew Williams. It's nice to meet you, too, but-” Once again, he spun around but, this time, he continued facing away from them and stood on the tips of his toes to see over the heads of the crowd.

“Er, excuse me, Matthew,” said Arthur, trying to regain his attention. “I was wondering what the hell is actually going on?”

“I don't think he'd want you to see it,” said Matthew, turning slightly so he could look Arthur in the eye. “And I think he should be the one to explain.”

“He?” asked Arthur. “Who?”

“There he is!” Matthew began to wave frantically and, after a while, whoever he was talking about must have seen him for Matthew lowered himself to stand properly, dropping his arm. He turned back to Arthur. “I think you're in for a big shock,” he told him, a little apologetically.

Before Arthur could answer, a voice boomed out across the crowd. It was loud and obnoxious and horribly _familiar_. “Matt! dude! Whatcha wanting? Something wrong? This guy ain't bothering you, is he? Mattie totally has a kick-ass boyfriend, you know.”

The voice sounded a lot like... But it couldn't be. Could it? And he knew Matthew? He couldn't be the cousin... _He_ never mentioned Matthew!

“I assure you,” Francis said, smiling a little as he glanced between Matthew and the man who had arrived, the man Arthur was blocked from seeing. Matthew was in the way and Arthur had a feeling he was doing it deliberately. “I am not flirting. I am just a friend. You must be the famous cousin.”

“Yup! That's me!” said the voice, obviously with a grin. “Alfred F. Jones, pleasure to meet you.”

Arthur stopped breathing. It _was_ him. He remembered him from before college, when he was still living with his parents. His final year in high school had been in an American school and his next door neighbour was still in middle school or junior high or whatever Americans called them. As he graduated, Alfred had started at high school and he had lost contact, especially after his parents moved. He remembered babysitting for Alfred's parents, being paid a few dollars despite his insistence that he didn't need it. He remembered Alfred's chubby-faced grins and his braces and the time he'd insisted on eating something Arthur had cooked (badly) and their trip to the hospital with food poisoning. And he remembered how he gave Arthur a drawing each day, sometimes more if Arthur seemed down. The stack he had acquired had been lost but he hadn't considered that Alfred would become an artist.

And he certainly never thought that he would grow up to make an exhibit about _Arthur_ , of all people.

“There's someone here who's _very_ interested in your work,” said Matthew. And he suddenly stepped out of the way. Arthur's wide eyes met the grinning Alfred.

The child Arthur had known had disappeared. Instead, Alfred stood tall, thin but muscled. His hair was still as unruly as ever, that cowlick stuck in its usual position. Instead of the thick frames of his earlier glasses, he now had more stylish, thinner ones. White, straight teeth were visible as he smiled. The only thing which spoiled the image of the grown man was the Superman t-shirt he was wearing.

As Arthur stared, the grin slipped from Alfred's face and his jaw dropped. His cheeks turned red and he made an odd noise in the back of his throat. Finally, he snapped his mouth closed, swallowed and said, “A-Arthur? What... What are you doing here?”

“Um. I...” Arthur closed his eyes and took a deep breath. His stomach rumbled and he latched onto that as something he could focus his ire on; his eyes flew open with a glare. “I _was_ trying to get something to eat because, _apparently_ ” - he swung his glare to Francis for a second - “I am 'not taking care of myself properly', when a couple passed by and remarked on how much of a lookalike for 'Love' I am. So, of course, I was dragged over here to find out what they meant.” His glare softened as he glanced around. “I... didn't expect this. Or you.”

Alfred chuckled weakly and it occurred to Arthur that he wasn't using his usual, boisterous laugh. He hadn't realised he'd missed it. “Well, er... I didn't expect you either. I didn't think I'd ever see you again, what with your parents moving an' all. But... it's good to see you. What're you up to, nowadays?”

“You-! Don't you _dare_ ask me how I'm doing! Don't swing the conversation away from yourself!” snapped Arthur. He swung his arm out, nearly hitting Francis who backed off. “What the hell is this?” Alfred flinched and Arthur deflated, remembering what the man had said about 'unrequited love'. “Are _you_ all right? Because... Well, this looks like you're... pining.” Arthur blushed and ducked his head; that made him sound rather full of himself which was certainly not his intention.

“Artie.” He looked back up to find Alfred smiling at him – a little, fond smile, one Arthur had never seen on his face before. “Artie, I'm fine. Honestly. Especially since you're here now. I- Well, you see...” Alfred took a deep breath, squeezing his eyes closed for a moment before opening them and looking Arthur dead in the eye. “I loved you, back then. But you were older and seemed so much cooler so I never said anything. When you left, I couldn't quite get over it. It wasn't as if I never had a girlfriend or anything – it was more that... I couldn't help thinking... Would you have said yes? If I'd asked you out, I mean.”

Uncomfortable discussing this rather publicly, Arthur shifted a little. After all, it wasn't every day you were the recipient of a love confession several years late. Finally, he built up the courage to respond. “Not back then,” he admitted. “You were barely even a teenager – it would have been weird.”

“And now?” asked Alfred, looking a little hopeful.

Arthur bit his lip. Should he? On the one hand, he barely knew Alfred now. On the other... There were two rooms here as testament to how much Alfred loved him and had _continued_ to love him, despite Arthur's cranky personality, despite not being in contact.

Before he could make his decision, however, his stomach grumbled rather loudly. He froze, eyes wide, as Alfred blinked in surprise. When he opened his mouth to apologise, an arm landed around his shoulders. “It sounds as though you need to eat, mon ami,” said Francis. “Perhaps Alfred could take you back to that café while I look around the rest of the exhibit. Come, Matthieu. Explain this painting to me.”

Alone, Arthur and Alfred stared at each other before hastily looking away. Arthur knew he was blushing and scowled when he noticed a couple of girls excitedly whispering to each other. “I _would_ like to get out of here,” he admitted. “And I _am_ hungry. Besides...” He forced himself to look Alfred in the eye. “It would be good to catch up, right?”

With his usual, large grin, Alfred nodded. “Sure. Let's get you fed. Have you been skipping meals while you work again?”

They walked off, side by side, Arthur rolling his eyes at Alfred's comment. “Oh, shut up, you. I've just been busy.”

Alfred held open the door when they reached. “Just like always, huh?” Arthur shook his head at that but couldn't help smiling.


End file.
